


dirt in my machine

by feistycadavers



Category: Marilyn Manson (Band), Tim Sköld (Musician)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Art School, Alternate Universe - College/University, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Butt Plugs, Choking, Clothed Sex, Come Eating, Crossdressing, Desk Sex, Dildos, Lingerie, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, Sex Work, Teacher-Student Relationship, Webcam/Video Chat Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-11
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-07-11 00:49:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15961154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feistycadavers/pseuds/feistycadavers
Summary: Tiffany always told him this would happen. Tim sort of thought he was immune to this sort of thing – ending up with a hot student in his class. He'd gotten through seven semesters of three classes unscathed – and yet. Tim looks at this exceptionally pretty blonde over his book, watches his painted nails rake through his hair.Fuck.He's cute.or, tim is an art history teacher and john is in his class. he's also a cam boy. tiffany instigates, and stephen is stephen.





	dirt in my machine

**Author's Note:**

> i have been working on this... FOR TWO YEARS. the document was created in october 2016. it is now september 2018. good god. i don't think i've actually worked on a one-shot sort of fic for That Long before.
> 
> uh usual shout outs to julien and ray and julia. julia actually read the half-finished draft of this bad boy probably like a year ago and suggested i bulk it out a little more than i had, which is how it turned into this 10k+ monster.
> 
> WHICH BY THE WAY THE WORD COUNT!! holy shit y'all this is also the longest single part fic i've ever written. ever. even longer than anything from the ol' livejournal days. this might actually be longer than some chaptered things i've written lmao.
> 
> if y'all don't know tiffany, she's the keyboardist in skold but she was also in twiztid and did dancing and stage work for alice cooper. she also DJs. and is best friends with tim's wife. ask me sometime about the tim/tiff slice of life tourfic i wanna write that no one cares about
> 
> also this is hella self-indulgent and there's a lot of art talk in here bc art school so... deal with it
> 
> and i think that's all i have to say this time. title from i am a pig by 2wo.
> 
> ETA: i did a playlist and aesthetic post for this shit. [here's a link.](http://skold.tumblr.com/post/181834823282/dirt-in-my-machine-a-fic-by-tgrsndshrks-rated-e)

When Tim opens the door to his classroom on the first day of the semester, it smells stale, of old reference books and cigarettes. He opens the windows, tries to get the smell of smoke out, but since he smells like it himself and all three classes of art history he teaches are entirely composed of seniors who would out-smoke him on a good day, he figures it's not worth the effort.

 

Tim sits at his desk, leaves the door open in case students start wandering in early. His class today is the advanced placement period, at noon on Mondays Wednesdays and Fridays. He drinks his coffee, tries to flatten out his copy of _Love Is a Dog From Hell_ enough to be able to read with a hand free, but the pages won't stay. So he resigns to holding it entirely too close to his face because he doesn't want to put his glasses on before anyone even shows up for class.

 

Kids start showing up at ten till. Tim tells them to take the syllabus as they walk in from a pile on a stool by the door. Predictably, nearly every student sits in the back third of the room.

 

“Afternoon,” Tim says automatically as a person appears in the doorway. He looks at the person for a moment, blinking dumbly as he realizes that this is going to be a long semester. The boy takes a syllabus off the top of the stack. He's skinny, and he hasn't completely grown into his frame yet. His sweater looks a size too big. He pushes blonde hair from his dark doe eyes as he looks the paper over, giving Tim a nod and a slight smile before he finds a seat near the windows.

 

 _Shit_.

 

Tiffany always told him this would happen. Tim sort of thought he was immune to this sort of thing – ending up with a hot student in his class. He'd gotten through seven semesters of three classes unscathed – and yet. Tim looks at this exceptionally pretty blonde over his book, watches his painted nails rake through his hair. _Fuck_. He's cute.

 

It's noon, and Tim opens his laptop to take roll call. Most of the professors he worked with wouldn't bother, but Tim likes to know his kids' names, because he's that brand of asshole. He learns that the pretty blonde who sits by the window is named John Lowery.

 

//

 

“I'm so _fucked_ ,” Tim says to his beer at the bar that night. Tiffany whacks him reassuringly on the shoulder, nods.

 

“You're fucked,” she says, “but you'll live.” She drinks her beer. “Listen. Just. You want to keep your job right?”

 

“I'm not gonna _do_ anything,” Tim says, furrowing his brows at her. “ _Jesus_.”

 

“He's technically an adult, if he's in your class,” Stephen says.

 

“Do you want me to get fired?” Tim asks.

 

“He's probably not even gay, anyway,” Tiffany says. Tim frowns at her and she looks at him. “You just said.”

 

“No, I know,” Tim says. “I'll just. Admire from afar, right.”

 

“And if he asks for extra credit, then,” Stephen says, making a lewd gesture. Tiffany flicks her napkin at him.

 

“How have you not been fired yet?” she asks.

 

“Apparently philosophy is not a very arousing class,” Stephen says. “And we can't all be as handsome as Tim.”

 

“Okay, stop,” Tim says, putting up a dismissive hand. “I'm not gonna sleep with one of my students. I don't do anything Tiffany wouldn't do.”

 

“I don't know,” Tiffany says, tracing a pointed fingernail around the mouth of her beer bottle. “ _Maybe_ if he was also a senior and as hot as you say this kid is.”

 

“Oh my _god_ ,” Tim says. “No. Peer pressure.”

 

“It's only January,” Stephen says. “Just wait till he graduates.”

 

“You two are such terrible influences,” Tim says. “Why are we friends?”

 

“Science says if you're friends with someone for more than seven years you'll be friends with them for life, so now you're stuck with us,” Tiffany says.

 

“Yeah, science, _bitch_ ,” Stephen says, in his best Jesse Pinkman voice. Tiffany fist bumps him.

 

//

 

The world is merciful. Tim doesn't actually have to speak to John till mid-February, when he's so deep in a lecture regarding shock value in contemporary art and Duchamp's _Fountain_ 's role in making it acceptable that his glasses are sliding down his nose. He pushes them up, pauses himself. A hand by the window goes up.

 

It's John's hand, small and lit by the window. Tim notices, now that he's been taking his sweater off in class, John's arm is covered in tattoos. Tim takes his glasses off, folds them.

 

“Yes, John?” he asks.

 

“What modern art movement would you say is most influenced by the shock art style?” John asks, resting his head in his hand. Tim puts his glasses back on so John goes a bit blurry and he doesn't have to look at him too hard.

 

“Immediately coming to mind isn't quite a movement, but rather a group of artists known as the Young British Artists,” Tim says, turning around to write that on the board. “They exhibited together mainly in the 90's. Damien Hirst, Tracey Emin. Hirst's _The Physical Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living_ is arguably the most iconic artwork to come out of Britain since the Renaissance. Not that Hirst is any good. He's a hack.”

 

Tim gesticulates, going on about the use of animal corpses and bodily fluids used within art, and he's in the middle of raving about Andres Serrano's _Piss Christ_ when a student near the back of the room informs him that it's two o'clock and class is over. Tim sighs to himself. He tends to get sidetracked on his lectures.

 

“Homework is to find a piece of art that offends you,” Tim says. Students are already packing up. He figures they'll all forget the assignment anyway, so he'll just put it in as extra credit.

 

Tim's sitting at his desk, pushing his glasses up and picking his copy of _Notes of a Dirty Old Man_ , when he feels someone standing in front of him.

 

It's John.

 

It's the closest Tim's seen John, and he looks unreasonably good. He's almost otherworldly, with the warmth of his burgundy-brown eyes, and Tim's fingernails dig into the paperback, itching to draw the angle of his jaw and the way his teeth gnaw at his lip when Tim notices him.

 

“Hey, John,” Tim says dumbly, scrambling to get his glasses off. “What do you need?”

 

“I was just wondering,” John says, fingers idling with the strap of his bag, “if you had any recommendations for shock artists?”

 

“Oh,” Tim says, blinking. He looks down, away from John, racking his brain. “Do you like performance art?”

 

“Sure,” John says, shrugging.

 

“There's a performance artist named Marina Abramovic,” Tim says. “She did this performance piece called _Rhythm 0_. She basically just stood there in the room and the audience were invited to do whatever they wanted to her.” John nods, seeming interested. “It started off innocently, but progressed to cutting her clothes off, minor sexual assault, to someone nearly shooting her, and the audience were fighting and shit because people were violating boundaries, and when the performance was over they all ran off to escape confrontation. Really interesting commentary on human nature.”

 

“Marina Abramovic,” John repeats, nodding. “That sounds... intense.”

 

“Yeah,” Tim says. “Wait, did I swear?” John snorts a laugh.

 

“You did,” he says. “It's fine.”

 

“I probably swear during lectures all the time and don't notice because I'm so excited about Dadaism or something,” Tim says, picking his book back up. “I'm a terrible influence. Making you all look at offensive art. Talking about _Piss Christ_.”

 

“Nah,” John says. “It's. Refreshing. You can tell you give a shit.” Tim gives a weak smile, and John nods. “I need to go. I have somewhere to be.”

 

“Yeah, of course,” Tim says. “Marina Abramovic.”

 

“Marina Abramovic,” John repeats, as he's heading out the door.

 

//

 

“Marina Abramovic?” Tiffany's saying, pacing around Tim's living room. “God, how fucking textbook art teacher are you. The real good performance art is the stuff that's so close to porn you can't let minors in the exhibits. You should've had him go look up something actually offensive.”

 

“I don't know,” Tim says, smacking his coffee maker in an attempt to get it to work. “I feel like gang mentality and human nature progressing to the point of contemplating murder is pretty offensive.”

 

“If you wanted to actually offend him,” Tiffany says, dropping down onto the couch, “you should've made him look at like, Helnwein or something. _Adoration of the Magi_.”

 

“He painted baby Jesus as Hitler,” Tim says, squinting at her. The coffee machine gurgles. “That's not interesting. That's edgy.”

 

“Are you two arguing about art again?” Stephen asks, as soon as he's in the door. “Windows open. Heard something about baby Jesus.”

 

“There's this piece by Gottfried Helnwein--” Tim starts to say, but Stephen puts a hand up.

 

“Don't know, don't care,” he says, letting himself into his bedroom.

 

“Why do you live with a philosophy teacher?” Tiffany asks.

 

“Why am I friends with an art theory teacher?” Tim remarks, bringing her her coffee.

 

“Theory and history go hand in hand, my friend,” Tiffany says. Tim grabs his flattened pack of cigarettes and his lighter off the table, flicking at it to light one. “Sort of like you and John, eh?” Tim definitely burns his thumb.

 

“Ow, _fuck_ ,” he says around the cigarette, shaking his hand. He looks at the burn. “God, you _fucker_.”

 

“If you really wanted to offend John with a performance artist,” Tiffany says, pausing to blow on her coffee, “you should've gone with Rick Gibson.”

 

“Sniffy the rat,” Tim says, clapping a hand to his forehead. “Fuck.”

 

“And the fetus earrings,” Tiffany says, nodding.

 

“Okay, fine,” Tim says. “If he asks again, I'll tell him about that. But I'm not showing him baby Hitler Jesus.”

 

//

 

John asks. Tim ends up getting John into a bunch of different art styles, like absurdism and surrealism, and lowbrow art.

 

Tim lets John stay for awhile after class to help him with filing while Tim talks to him about art intervention and whether it's vandalism or not. It sort of becomes a thing, John staying after class, and Tim doesn't mind it. No one else seems to enjoy listening to him go on and on about art.

 

Tim will maybe admit he's smitten.

 

//

 

Things get really weird one night in late March.

 

Tim's locked in his bedroom at two in the morning, the blue light of his laptop screen cast across the wall. He's the first to admit he's choosy with his porn, if he even watches it. He doesn't like watching pairs, just solo videos, and he doesn't like watching anything produced by those big porn studios, because they skeeve him out. Casting couch jerk off videos are even worse, Tim thinks, because they seem so coercive. Amateur videos are shitty quality and badly lit, and always on those tube sites, which are the _actual_ worst of all, since they're owned by all those evil mainstream porn studios.

 

Which is how he usually ends up on those webcam streaming sites.

 

It's just that Tim _really_ needs to distract himself. There's the stress of midterms, but on top of that, it's just. John. As nice as it is to have him around after class to help with filing or tidying up the lecture hall, John is just. Overwhelming. The weather is warming up and he's been skipping the sweaters entirely, opting for shorter and shorter t-shirts, and Tim can't help it if the last few times he hurriedly wanked himself to sleep he might have maybe possibly thought about John's hip bones prodding out of his jeans when he lifted his arms up to reach the top file drawer and his shirt rode up. It's not Tim's fault John is the most sexually appealing creature on planet earth, and it's also definitely not Tim's fault John is completely unattainable for a myriad of reasons. Tim feels kind of like a well trained dog who's had a steak put in front of him and been told “no”.

 

So, Tim decides he needs something to focus on this time. He can't trust his mind not to wander to thoughts of sucking bruises into the pale expanse of John's hips, biting him where the bone juts out, the soft whine he'd make.

 

Tim bites down on his knuckle, tries to push the thought out of his mind.

 

He had planned to find someone the complete opposite of John, maybe a thicker brunette, but he still finds himself putting all of John's features into the drop down menus at the top of the page. Jerking off to someone who looks like John is totally different from actually jerking off to John. _Totally_.

 

Blonde. Slender. Tattoos.

 

Tim watches as the site sorts through all the live feeds, and eventually spits up two that fit his criteria. _Typical_ , he thinks to himself. The first thumbnail only shows the guy from the belly button down, and he's wearing some very tiny grey lace panties and sheer black thigh highs. Crossdressing has never been one of Tim's on buttons, but he can appreciate the aesthetic, so he shrugs to himself and clicks the feed.

 

The chat loads first. After a moment, the webcam feed comes up, and it's just the guy's bed with his laptop on it. Tim's about to click back when he hears the guy's voice off camera.

 

“Sorry, just a second -” it says, and Tim's stomach falls out his ass. “I'm trying to find a condom that won't clash with the color of the dildo. I'm an art student. Can't help it.”

 

It's John.

 

There's a half second of sheer, horrifying panic where Tim considers chucking his laptop out his third story apartment window and pretending he never saw this. That this was just a weird hallucination and he totally did not just hear John talking about condoms and dildos. But then, John walks back into frame, sits on the edge of the bed, and scoots himself back, practically preening in the camera, and Tim is going to have a boner for the rest of his life.

 

Tim shoves his laptop down out of his lap, because like, he's seriously fucking hard now. John's naked except for a pair of black panties and matching thigh high socks, and Tim's only just now seeing the extent of John's tattoos, which come all the way up his arms and down onto his chest. Perhaps the worst of all is that John has fucking lipstick on, his mouth filled in a glossy red. Tim makes the page full screen, watching as John dutifully tears open a condom packet and rolls the thing down over a dildo. Holy shit. That's _big_. All of this, and now he's a fucking butt slut? Tim smears his hand down over his face.

 

“I see a couple guests have shown up just in time,” John's saying, looking at his laptop. He sets the dildo aside for a moment and turns over, kneeing himself back a bit and sliding his thumbs under the waistband of the panties, and Tim forces himself to close his eyes and consider if he really wants to live in a world where he's seen John's ass. He _really_ thinks about it, but he hears the token notification sound go off in his headphones, and he peeks open one eye.

 

“Fuck,” Tim says, immediately regretting his decision. He should have thrown his laptop out the window when he had the chance, because there's no fucking way he's going to be able to stop watching now.

 

John's got the panties down around his thighs now, and he's bent over, the rectangular base of a pastel pink plug spreading him open. Tim's going to be spending the rest of the semester wondering if John's wearing it in class. Maybe hoping he is, a little bit. John reaches a hand back to toy with the base, pressing it in a little deeper, keening softly. Tim mashes the volume button on his laptop. He has to hear all of this. He's in too deep now. He has to _commit_.

 

John is watching the chat on his laptop, fingers gripping at the base of the plug and pulling at it, and Tim can actually see how he's stretching to accommodate the widest part. When the toy slips out, he pulls it aside, lets the camera see how open he is, before pushing it back in, pulling it out, pushing it back in. When he pulls it out again, he sets the plug aside and reaches for the pump bottle on his bedside table. Jesus. He has a fucking pump bottle of lube. Tim doesn't even have one of those, just the shitty flip tops that are impossible to open once you've already got lubey hands. John reaches back, smears it over his hole, pushes three fingers in at once.

 

“What the _fuck_ ,” Tim whispers, very feelingly.

 

This isn't fair. Nothing about this is fair, especially when John gives his first real moan, soft and earnest. Tim can't even think about jacking off. He's pretty sure he'd lose it the second his hand touched his dick just to get it out. John's fingering himself open even wider, breathing heavy, panties stretching as he tries to spread his legs further.

 

“Shit,” John mumbles, pulling his fingers out. He turns himself over and pushes the panties off, sitting up on his knees, tugging the thigh highs up a bit. “What's the vote tonight? Are you guys letting me jerk off or do I just get the dick?” he asks, fingers curling in the elastic at the top of his socks. Tim doesn't read the chat. He's too busy admiring John's dick. Like, he's packing heat. Maybe it just looks big because John is so thin and his hands are so small, but Tim has to admit he's impressed. He only looks at the chat when the token notification sound goes off again. “You want me to face the camera this time?” John asks, echoing the request sent with the tip. “I can do that.” He grabs the pump bottle again and dumps lube into one hand, picking the dildo back up and slicking it over. John spreads his legs enough, holds the toy in place behind him, and lowers his hips.

 

Tim has to bite down on his knuckles to keep from making some horrible noise.

 

The face John makes is obscene. The noise he makes is even dirtier. He moans, sinking himself down onto the dildo, his stupid black painted nails digging into it. John grabs his cock with the other hand, starts working it overhand with a loose fist. He's just starting. Tim really should've gotten himself a beer. Or the entire six pack, no matter how much hell Stephen would give him for stealing all the booze.

 

Oh god. How was he supposed to tell Stephen and Tiffany about this?

 

Tim stuffs the thought back down, blinking and refocusing on the more important matter, which is John expertly riding the dildo. Tim ventures a hand down to palm at himself, just to ease the edge off, sighing. John arches, his head falling back, and it sort of sinks in that somewhere nearby, maybe even in the fucking dorms, John is actually doing this. Like, real life John, not on a screen. Tim feels his cock jerk under his hand and he can't possibly put it off anymore. He doesn't even bother to get actual lube, just spits in his hand and fumbles with his boxers, hissing between his teeth at the rush of cool air that hits him when he gets them down. Tim works himself in time with John, who's moving agonizingly slow, rolling his hips. He looks down at his laptop, letting go of his cock and bracing himself back on the bed, grinding down on the dildo. John says something but Tim doesn't really hear it over the blood rushing in his ears. Then John's turning over, ass up again, and he's really giving it to himself now, lipstick smearing on the sheets as he pushes his face into them.

 

“Fuck, yes,” John moans, and for a long moment, Tim's thinking about sitting in his chair, rolled back against the whiteboard to give John the space as he's bent over the desk in Tim's classroom, rocking up onto his toes as he fucks himself, not for the camera, just for Tim, just his eyes, and Tim almost loses it at the thought, has to look away from the laptop, let go of his cock. But John's practically _whimpering_ , and Tim _has_ to look. John's really going for it, and he's fucking dripping without even touching himself, his free hand fisted in the sheets. John swears under his breath, toes curling in his socks, back arching. Oh no. He's close. Tim grabs himself, works quickly, a little dry and rough, but in the best way. The token notification goes off in his headphones. John fucking laughs.

 

“Shut _up_ John,” Tim hisses into the silence of his bedroom.

 

“You want me to come, huh?” John says, voice thin and needy, reading off the laptop. “Without even touching myself?”

 

“Oh my god,” Tim mumbles. He throws his arm across his face in frustration, but then remembers he can't watch John if his eyes are covered.

 

“Yes, _fuck_ ,” John gasps, the wet slick of lube and the toy audible as he really fucking pounds it into himself, angling it down, making these quiet little noises, and Tim loses it in his hand before John even comes. He shoves two knuckles into his mouth, trying to stifle the moan that slips out, and he's still working himself through the aftershocks when John comes, legs nearly giving out under him as he chants _fuck fuck fuck_ and spills all over the sheets.

 

Tim yanks his headphones off, staring up at the light his laptop throws on the ceiling.

 

“That happened,” he says to himself, voice quiet. He spares a glance at John in the webcam feed, who's now tossed the dildo aside and is working himself open with his fingers. Tim's not sure he's ever going to be able to teach that class period ever again.

 

Fuck. It's tomorrow.

 

Tim doesn't bother to watch the end of John's show. He closes his laptop and wipes himself clean with his t-shirt, tosses it at the pile of laundry across his room, and rolls over and goes to sleep.

 

He's going to need it.

 

//

 

Tim doesn't watch the door as the students come into class the next day. He purposely leaves his glasses off so he has to bury his face in _You Get So Alone At Times That It Just Makes Sense_. He can't look at John. He can't do it.

 

When it's noon and Tim has to put the book down, his eyes automatically go to the window seat and there John is, rifling through the bag sitting in his lap. He pulls out his notebook and a sketchbook, along with a novel Tim can't recognize from here. John's lips are pressed together in concentration, the hand he was fucking himself with last night pushing his hair out of his eyes as he opens his notebook. Tim somehow, by a divine miracle of goddess herself, evades getting an awkward boner.

 

“Afternoon,” Tim says, nearly tripping over the leg of his chair when he gets up. A couple students near the front notice and try to stifle their giggles. “God. Don't laugh at me. I was up _way_ too late last night.”

 

“Doing _what_ , exactly, Tim?” this asshole in the front named Brian Warner says. He's got a dumb haircut and is exactly the kind of artist Tim would physically fight if given the opportunity. Brian does shit like drop acid and go to Disneyland and call it performance art.

 

“Don't call me Tim; it’s Mr. Skold,” Tim says, “and mind your own business, Brian.”

 

Tim manages to make it through his lecture on color field paintings' historical significance and why a 5 year old could not do what Mark Rothko did, thank you very much Brian, without staring at John too much. Or at least, without John catching him staring at him.

 

He's sitting back at his desk as the students are all packing up to leave, when he spots John coming over to his desk. Oh no. Somehow within the last twelve hours John has learned mind reading and knows exactly what Tim saw – and did – last night. He's busted. He's fired. Totally fucked.

 

“Hey,” John says, innocently enough. Tim must be looking awfully confused because John raises an eyebrow and goes, “Filing?”

 

“Oh,” Tim says dumbly, closing his eyes and shoving his glasses up his nose. “I, uh. Sorry. Was thinking about something else.” He reaches down and opens a couple drawers, pulls out a stack of tests. “Uh, to be honest, I don't really have anything for you to file. I just need to grade some exams from last week.”

 

“Oh,” John says, sounding a little wounded.

 

“I mean, you're welcome to stay though,” Tim says quickly. “If you want.” _Fuck_. He was so close to being off the hook but his dumb mouth couldn't stay shut. John perks back up instantly.

 

“Sure,” John says. He pulls the nearest chair over, sits across the desk as Tim goes for his binder to find the grading roster. “Uh, I brought you something.” Tim's head shoots up.

 

“What?” he asks.

 

“It's a book,” John says, pulling the well-worn novel Tim had seen earlier out of his bag. Tim takes it. _Pulp_ by Bukowski. “You've been reading Bukowski all semester, so.”

 

“Holy shit,” Tim says. “I've never read his prose. I-” He looks up from the book at John. “Did you get this for me?” he asks.

 

“I saw it while I was thrifting,” John says, shrugging a shoulder. “It was like, fifty cents in the paperback bin.”

 

“Christ, uh,” Tim says. “Thanks, John.” John smiles with his whole face. Tim's stomach turns itself over.

 

“No problem,” John says. “I have a copy of _Ham on Rye_ somewhere but I'm always losing books in the mess of old horror movies on VHS I have.”

 

“VHS,” Tim says, snorting a laugh. “You listen to music on vinyl too then?”

 

“Yes,” John says, completely missing Tim's sarcasm. Tim smiles, sighs, sets the book aside.

 

“You're really something,” he says, pulling the grading roster out. He sets it next to the first test, starts comparing answers.

 

“Is that a good thing?” John asks. Tim looks up at him over his glasses.

 

“Yeah,” Tim says. “Of course.”

 

//

 

Stephen is sitting on the floor of the living room playing video games. Tim's grading essays on the couch, the stack of papers in his lap seeming thicker and heavier by the minute. Tiffany is over again. She comes back to the couch with coffee, standing between Stephen and the TV for an extra moment till he yells at her to move.

 

“God, I fucking died,” Stephen says, gesturing at the TV, which says _YOU DIED_ across the screen in red letters. “Thanks, asshole.”

 

“What is he even playing?” Tiffany asks, passing Tim a mug. He doesn't drink from it, just sets it on the table next to him to cool off.

 

“Dank Souls,” Tim says, not looking up from the essay he's scribbling a _SEE ME_ on. “I mean. _Dark Souls_.”

 

“ _Dark Souls 3_ ,” Stephen says. “Not to be confused with the often-panned _Dark Souls 2_.”

 

“Yeah, cool, interesting,” Tiffany says flatly.

 

It's quiet for a moment until Tim tucks the graded essay in the back of the pile and checks the name at the top of the next one. John Lowery. Fuck.

 

“Tiffany?” Tim says.

 

“Present,” she says, tucking her legs up under herself on the couch.

 

“If I tell you something will you promise not to judge me?” Tim asks.

 

“Of course,” Tiffany says.

 

“I'm listening and I'm going to judge you,” Stephen says.

 

“Fuck you,” Tim says, “I'll piss in your beer.”

 

“Maybe I'm into that,” Stephen says.

 

“Oh my god,” Tim says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Okay. Look. Y'know John?”

 

“Did you rail him on your desk yet?” Tiffany asks.

 

“Never mind, checking out now,” Stephen says.

 

“No, _Jesus_ ,” Tim says. “But. I found out what he does. Like. For money.”

 

“What's he do?” Tiffany asks.

 

“He, uh,” Tim says. He swallows dryly. “Webcams?” Tiffany looks at him.

 

“You mean like, jerks off on webcam for old dudes?” she asks.

 

“Oh, fuck off, I'm not even old,” Tim says.

 

“Oh, so you were looking for something to jerk off to and found him,” Tiffany says, clearly joking. Tim doesn't answer, just presses his lips together. Her face drops. “Oh, shit, dude.”

 

“Yeah,” Tim says, wincing.

 

“Did you watch the whole thing?” Tiffany asks.

 

“Yes,” Tim says. He takes a breath, exhales slowly. “Three times now.”

 

“And you're just telling me now?” Tiffany yells, flinging a pillow at him. He blocks it and it goes flying towards the kitchen.

 

“I wasn't gonna talk about it at school or at the bar, holy _shit_ ,” Tim says. “Christ.”

 

“So, tell me everything,” Tiffany says. “What's he do on cam? Take his clothes off and look cute?”

 

Tim doesn't say anything right away, just puts a hand over his face, embarrassed to even say it out loud. “He wears lingerie and fucks really big dildos,” he says, voice muffled against his palm.

 

“ _No_ , oh my _god_ ,” Tiffany says, getting up off the couch and pacing in a circle. “You have to say something. That's so wild. He's a _slut_. Holy _shit_.”

 

“That'd be so unprofessional,  _fuck_ ,” Tim says, looking down at John's essay. It's titled _The Artist Is Present: A Look At_ Rhythm 0' _s Commentary on Human Nature_ , and Tim's chest hurts a little.

 

“Okay, what about after he graduates?” Tiffany says. “Then there's no weirdness.”

 

“That's in like two months,” Tim says, whining. “I'm gonna die by then. I swear.” Tiffany looks at him.

 

“Are you hard?” she asks, and Tim gapes at her, because _how did she know_? “You totally are,” Tiffany says, grabbing at the essays to get a look, and Tim grabs them back, trying to draw on her arm in red pen as retaliation.

 

“No, fuck you,” Tim says, trying to scribble a penis on her hand.

 

“Yes you _are_ ,” Tiffany says, licking her fingers and wiping at the ink, trying to get the dick off. “Y'know what? I don't wanna know any more about your weird kinks like skinny blonde dudes in panties.”

 

“The panties aren't even a _thing_ ,” Tim says, frowning as she sits back down. “I just think everyone looks good in lingerie regardless of gender. It's more just... aesthetically pleasing than an honest kink.”

 

“I'm gonna get Stephen some thigh highs,” Tiffany says.

 

“I'm gonna dress up like a clown and stand over your bed while you're sleeping so when you wake up you think you're gonna get killed by a clown,” Stephen says.

 

“That was weirdly specific,” Tim says.

 

“I've been saving it for awhile,” Stephen says.

 

“So,” Tiffany says, “are you gonna say anything though?” Tim's skimming John's essay.

 

“Probably not,” Tim says. “If he says something then I'll deal with it then, but otherwise, it's not worth risking my job.” Tiffany shrugs, drinks her coffee.

 

“I guess,” she says. “That's _awesome_ though. He's a slut.”

 

“He's not a slut,” Tim says, making a face. “I mean. Unless he likes being called that.”

 

“Damn, quick to his defense,” Tiffany remarks. “You catch feelings now too?”

 

Tim considers it for a moment, staring through John's essay. He didn't think he had feelings, but after John gave him that copy of Pulp a couple weeks ago, he'd sort of caught himself grading John a little easier, excusing his tardies on the rare occasion he was late, and he'd lent him his first edition copy of _Love Is a Dog From Hell_.

 

“Fuck,” Tim says pointedly.

 

//

 

John is on cam that night. Tim knows when he goes on because he gets notifications from the website's app now.

 

He's sitting in the middle of his bed in a fishnet bodystocking under a pair of shorts so tiny they’re probably not street legal. John sets the chat room subject.

 

_PANTIES OFF @750, FULL DILDO SHOW @1000!! see profile for tip menu xo_

 

So they’re not even shorts anyway. Tim sort of wonders, as he's watching John tuck his legs under himself, how much money he makes off this. He's not sure exactly what the token to dollar conversion is. The tip menu thing is new, so Tim tabs over to John's profile to read it.

 

_say hi!! - 11_

_feet - 44_

_spanks – 55_

_flash booty – 66_

_flash cock – 77_

_friend add – 101_

_paddle spanks – 155_

_bj tease – 177_

_panties – 2000_

 

Oh Jesus. John sells panties. He has videos. Tim scrolls through them, staring at the gifs. He wants to buy every single stupid video. There's ones of him in the shower, of him getting off, a video that's shot to look like he's sucking the viewer's dick. Tim breaks a sweat.

 

He tabs back over to John's webcam feed, where he's sitting cross legged, eyes on the chat, toying with the fishnet knit.

 

“Hey, there,” John says, smiling, answering someone in the chat. “Yeah, I go to college. I'm a senior in art school.” Tim's stomach churns.

 

 _Ever fucked a teacher for extra credit?_ asks the chat. Tim nearly chokes on his own spit. John just laughs, paws at his hair.

 

“No, course not,” John says, grinning. “I have a couple cute teachers, but I'm a decent enough student that I don't _need_ to suck dick for extra credit.”

 

A tip comes in. 66. _Flash something_ , Tim thinks.

 

“Ah, thanks, babe,” John says, turning over on the bed. Ass, right. Or as John said, _booty_. Right. What a dweeb. John pulls the panties down, no plug this time, just black fishnet stretched over white skin. He grabs at his ass, really digs his nails into it, then gives it a wiggle when he lets go. He pulls the panties back up, too far, the full back of them stretched up to show the curve of his bum. John has a really cute butt. He snaps them back into place and rolls back over, pulling his laptop nearby. “Foot tease is 44,” John says to the chat.

 

It doesn't take long for John to hit 750, and it seems to jump to 1000 within a few minutes after that. Tim doesn't jerk off, just watches John ride the dildo wearing nothing but the bodystocking with a hole ripped in the back large enough to fuck himself through and one matching torn in the front when he frees his cock. John spills in his hand, eats it, and Tim comes so hard when he gets himself off afterwards he has to shove his face into his pillow to choke out John's name.

 

//

 

Some Tuesday in April, Tim is awoken on his one weekday he doesn’t have a class to teach by his text tone ringing loudly at him. He mumbles, smacks his hand down on his phone, and drags it over till he can read it without his glasses on.

 

_Forgot lunch. It’s in the fridge. Can you bring it? Thx._

 

Fucking _Pogo_ . Stephen _would_ forget his lunch the one day Tim’s home and available to bring it to him. There go Tim’s plans of staying in his underwear all day watching _Great British Bake Off_.

 

Tim figures, he’s not working, so no need to wear his stupid work clothes. Just to fuck with the rest of the staff, he wears the jeans that are too tight for even casual Friday, a t-shirt, his usual casual combat boots, and his leather jacket. He also puts his mohawk up and chews gum as a specific _fuck you_ to the front office lady with a vendetta against him for always getting his attendance rosters in _right_ before cutoff time.

 

Sure enough, she glares at him over her readers, but since he’s not breaking _student_ dress code, she begrudgingly gives him his visitor pass anyway. Tim doesn’t bother putting the sticker on, just walks straight to Stephen’s classroom, knocks twice, and lets himself in.

 

Stephen’s in the middle of a lecture on ethics versus morals, wildly scribbling into a venn diagram that takes up most of the whiteboard. Tim clears his throat and Stephen jumps, nearly dropping his dry erase pen.

 

“Christ, Tim,” Stephen huffs, and Tim just grins, drops his lunch bag on his desk.

 

“Sorry, I won’t interrupt your crazed ramblings,” Tim remarks. Several of the students giggle, and Tim glances over at the desks, startling when he immediately meets wide red-brown eyes. “Oh. Hi John.”

 

“Hey Mr. Skold,” John says quickly, looking back down at his notes and writing something, avoiding his eyes. Tim looks back at Stephen, who’s giving him his best _what the fuck_ look, so Tim returns his best _if you say anything I’ll fucking kill you_ look, and Stephen sighs.

 

“Thanks, Tim,” he says. Tim nods, and flashes John a quick smile on his way out.

 

//

 

It's mid-May. Tim's writing the final and John's sitting at the desk in the front row, sketching something. John's been just sitting around for the time between his class period ending and Tim's next one starting. He'd explained, when Tim had tried to get him to leave one afternoon, that it's a waste of time for him to go back to his apartment between classes, since he'd only be home for an hour between art history and his sound production class, so Tim just gave up and let him stay and sketch, or talk about art, as usual.

 

Tim's attention is broken by the sound of paper tearing, and John's getting up, bringing a sketchbook page over to him. John sets it down. Tim takes it.

 

It's unmistakably Tim, hunched over his desk, glasses slid down his nose. Tie loosened. Red pen squeezed in his hand.

 

“John,” Tim says.

 

“You can have it,” John says. “Just. Felt like drawing you.”

 

Tim presses his lips together, looking at the sketch. There's a _J_ in the bottom corner, under Tim's coffee mug on the desk.

 

“John,” Tim says again, “I have to tell you something.” John frowns.

 

“What's wrong?” John asks, sounding worried.

 

“I just,” Tim says, taking his glasses off and wiping his brow, “it's a _thing_ . And I need to tell you before it becomes more of a _thing_.”

 

“Okay,” John says cautiously.

 

“I, um,” Tim says. “I'm telling you this because we have a professional relationship, right? I'm your teacher. You're my student.”

 

“Right,” John says. He wrings his fingers.

 

“I just, found out something about you?” Tim says, voice pulling up. He feels like puking. “And I don't want you to like, be uncomfortable with me because I know it.” John's mouth falls open, then closes quickly, and his cheeks go red. He knows.

 

“You found out about my job?” John asks.

 

“Yeah,” Tim says, a little thankful he doesn't have to say it himself. “I-”

 

“Just, save it, please,” John says. “You don't have to lecture me. I know what I'm doing.”

 

“I wasn't going to,” Tim says. “I have no problem with it. I just didn't want you to feel weird and I wanted to be honest because-”

 

“Did you watch me?” John asks, and then it's very quiet in the lecture hall. Tim reaches up to nervously itch at his neck.

 

“Yes,” he admits, looking away.

 

“Did you like it?” John asks.

 

Tim looks back at him. He's seen John's eyes go dark like that before, when he gets close to his tip goal, when he really wants it because he's been showing off all night and he's wound tight.

 

“Yes,” Tim says again.

 

John grins. He bites his lip, walking around Tim's desk, and Tim turns his chair to face him. Tim doesn't even stop John when he grabs his face, pulls him in, and kisses him. Every logical part of Tim's brain is telling him to push him off, to tell him he can't, but instead his stupid brain cells make him reach up and put his hands on John's neck. John moves closer, steps in between Tim's legs, slotting their mouths together.

 

“John,” Tim says, for what seems like the hundredth time today, “I can't.”

 

“I'm twenty-two,” John says, kissing him again.

 

“Yeah, and I'm forty-six and your _teacher_ ,” Tim says. John's too close; he can feel his breath on his lips. “I’m more than _twice_ your age.”

 

“And you've been watching me on cam,” John reminds him, and it's not like Tim can argue with that. “Did you jerk off? After you watched me?” Tim's heard John say way dirtier shit, but hearing it right from his mouth, inches from his face, has him stiffening in his work pants.

 

“Yes,” Tim says, wishing he could lie. “Couldn't help it.” John purrs, grabbing at Tim's tie, lifting his head by it.

 

“Bet you thought about this,” John says, voice thin like it gets when he's aching for it. “During class even. After you saw me.”

 

“Before that,” Tim admits, and John whines. He wedges a knee between Tim's thigh and the arm of his chair, pushing their bodies together, kissing him again, open-mouthed. Tim slides his hands into John's hair, holding him in as he licks into his mouth, feeling John push against Tim's hips with his own.

 

“Fuck,” John gasps. “You’re so fucking _hot_.” His hands are already unbuttoning Tim's shirt.

 

“We shouldn’t,” Tim says, but the whole subject sort of goes south when John pushes Tim's shirt open, looks him over.

 

“What the fuck,” John says, frowning. “What is _that_.” He points with a black painted finger at the ring of surgical steel going through Tim's nipple.

 

“Uh,” Tim says. “That's my nipple piercing.”

 

“No,” John says. “Teachers don't have nipple piercings.”

 

“Well, here I am, and there it is,” Tim says. John sits back in Tim's lap, sort of taking it in. “Let me guess. You also thought your elementary school teachers lived at the school, right?”

 

“Shut _up_ ,” John says, frowning. “I need a second to process this information. As if you could get any hotter after I saw what you dress like out of class, now you have a secret body piercing.”

 

“I have a secret tattoo as well,” Tim says. John moans out loud.

 

“I don't need this kind of suffering,” he says.

 

“Honestly, there's a lot you don't know about me,” Tim remarks, considering his weekend goth club habits.

 

“I want to know everything,” John says, and he seems to give up on he piercing thing, because he starts fucking grinding into Tim's lap. That’s distracting.

 

“John,” Tim says, letting his hands go down John's body to his hips, holding him still. “I'm not gonna fuck you.”

 

“I wasn’t planning on that,” John says, and Tim looks at him.

 

“What exactly were you planning?” Tim asks. John doesn’t say anything, just slides out of Tim’s lap and onto the floor, onto his knees. Oh.

 

“Oh,” Tim says stupidly. “John, we -- I really shouldn’t.” John ignores the words, more focused on Tim's lap than what he’s saying. He's hard in his dumb sensible work pants that he hates, his cock straining at them. “I could get _fired_ ,” Tim says, but John ignores him again, and Tim watches as John looks him over, biting his lips together. “John?” Tim asks, wondering if he's come to his senses and suddenly wants to back out of all this.

 

“Fuck,” John says. “Can I just. Like. Suck your cock.” Tim's brain practically melts out his ears. He should say no. He _should_.

 

“Uh,” he says dumbly, as John reaches for his belt.

 

“Can I tell you something?” John asks, popping the button and pulling down the zipper. He doesn't give Tim the time to answer. “I've been thinking about this for months. Always wanted to suck you off under the desk during class. Trying to make you make noise so the class would know I was under there.” God. Tim couldn’t say no to John if he tried, at this point.

 

“Fucking hell, John,” Tim says. He lifts his hips so John can pull his pants and boxers down. His cock comes free and John purrs, taking it in his hand. He mouths wet kisses at the base, works him with his hand, licks his way up.

 

“Can I?” John asks, pressing the head of Tim's cock against his lips.

 

“You're asking me now?” Tim asks, which is probably a dumb thing to say, but it's all his brain is giving him.

 

“Yes?” John says.

 

“Of course you can, holy shit,” Tim says, physically feeling his soul leave his body as John takes him down. John's mouth is hot and wet and Tim groans, his head falling back over the back of the chair. He grabs at the arm rests as John starts to move his head, mouth working him over as his hand steadies Tim's cock. John bobs off, sucks in on his jaw, spits on it.

 

“You can be rough with me,” John says. “Push me down. Choke me with it.” John goes down again, and Tim feels himself hit the back of his mouth as he runs a hand through John's hair. He watches, holds him there for a moment, pushes, just a bit. John's shoulders jerk a bit but he sinks down an inch, and Tim moans through gritted teeth. He pulls John off, hand fisted in his hair, spit stringing from John's lips.

 

“Oh my god,” Tim says, and John smiles with swollen lips. He opens his mouth again and Tim guides him back down, moving his head for him, both hands wound in John's hair. “John. Fucking hell.” John's eyes are watering, tears welled up at the edges, and Tim lets go so he can come up for air. John gasps, grabbing Tim's cock and working it quickly with both hands, all spit slick.

 

“Please,” John says, voice already fucked raw. “Let me make you come.”

 

“Yeah, fuck, c'mere,” Tim says, reaching for him. “Can I choke you?” John nods quickly and Tim grabs him by the neck, pulling him up into a messy, needy kiss. Tim can taste himself in John's mouth. He squeezes with his fingers, feeling John’s breath catch in his grip. John’s hands are still jerking him off, slow and easy.

 

“Did you think about this?” John asks, mouth against Tim’s, breathless. Tim eases his grip a bit to let him speak. “While you were watching me?”

 

“Was mostly busy thinking about you bent over my desk,” Tim admits, and John shudders. “Spread wide open and stuffed with my cock. How’s that sound?”

 

“Perfect for another time,” John remarks, dropping down again, and Tim lets him. “Right now I just wanna fucking suck you off because you have the most gorgeous dick I’ve ever seen.” John thumbs the skin back, presses his tongue into the sensitive spot under his head, and Tim sucks in a sharp breath between his teeth. “Besides, you’ve seen me come enough times. My turn to watch you come.” Tim just nods, and John takes him back into his mouth, laving his tongue into the underside of his cock. John moves his head, wet mouth almost too much. Tim gets his fingers back in his hair, gently pushes him down, and John purrs in approval. He inches up a bit closer to the edge of the chair, guiding John’s head, feeling him moan around him.

 

“Fuck,” Tim chokes out. He pulls John back up and spit strings from his lips. John takes a breath before swallowing Tim right back down, drooling, messy. Tim’s hips jerk up a little and John makes the most delightful little choking sound, but doesn’t come up. John just gets a hand around the base of Tim’s cock and starts working it with his mouth, spit slick fingers gliding easy. John looks up, eyes so fucking dark and turned on their burgundy-brown almost looks purple. He comes up once more for air, biting into his bottom lip.

 

“Come in my mouth,” John says quickly, hurriedly going back to fucking his mouth on Tim’s cock, and Tim practically dies on the spot. He’s getting there fast, and John’s free hand has slid between his legs, fingers high up on his thigh. Tim’s fingers knot in John’s hair, head lolling to the side, torn between wanting to fall back and keeping his eyes locked on John. His cock stiffens in John’s mouth.

 

“M’gonna come,” Tim gasps out, and John hums, catching his gaze, eyes somehow begging for it, and Tim can’t help but give it to him. His orgasm hits hard, unable to think of anything but John’s warm eyes and hotter mouth, spilling over and over on his tongue. John doesn’t stop, not right away at least - he keeps going, slow long wet strokes till Tim shudders hard, the torturous side of overstimulated. John pops off, drools a bit of come on purpose. Tim groans uselessly. John _was_ a natural performer, after all.

 

“Was that good?” John asks, hands squeezing Tim’s thighs. Tim whimpers rather embarrassingly.

 

“Jesus Christ, John,” Tim says, covering his face with his hands. “I feel like I just got hit by a bus. You didn’t _give_ me an orgasm so much as _removed it_ by force.” John grins.

 

“Good,” he says. “I was worried. It’s been awhile since I sucked off anything that wasn’t silicone.” John politely tucks Tim back into his underwear, climbs gently into his chair with him, and Tim brings a hand down to John’s thigh, despite the fact that he can hardly think. “Nah, I shouldn’t,” John says, as if reading his mind. “I have a show later. Gotta save up.” Damn.

 

“It’d be rude if I didn’t offer, at least,” Tim says. John holds his face in his hands, kisses him. Tim lets John in, tasting overwhelmingly of cock. Tim starts a bit. “Did we even lock the door?” he asks quickly, looking over John’s shoulder. It’s still shut, exactly as it’d been left. John laughs once.

 

“Not to worry,” he says, sliding from Tim’s lap. “I have my four o’clock class to go to anyway.” John has to adjust himself when he stands, his pants far too tight now. “But you’ll see me later.” He winks. Tim nods dumbly, and John retrieves his bag and leaves him sitting there at his desk, shirt and pants undone.

 

 _Shit_ , Tim thinks, exactly as he’d thought when John had walked in five months ago.

 

//

 

Tim is sitting in bed at John’s usual cam time at ten o’clock, already half hard, waiting for the notification from his phone.

 

It finally goes off at 7 after. John’s usually not so late.

 

The chat room subject makes Tim’s face burn.

 

_NO TIP GOAL CUZ I’M FUCKIN HORNY. STORY TIME: I SUCKED MY TEACHER’S DICK TODAY EDITION. ALSO I LOOK CUTE TOO_

 

Oh no.

 

It’s not that Tim’s worried John’s going to blab about it in a way that would identify him and endanger his job. It’s that Tim’s not sure he can stand watching John jerk off _about him_. John’s mid-sentence when his feed loads in.

 

“-- few minutes to get into storytime so everyone can join the chat. I have a special viewer, I’m _sure_.” John grins. He’s wearing some iteration of a schoolgirl outfit, pleated skirt and white stockings, a rosary around his neck. Dirty. Tim admires that. He’s hard instantly, so clearly his dick approves too.

 

The chat is active tonight, asking about John’s story, to which he keeps insisting he’ll tell in a few moments. He’s very insistent on making sure everyone has a chance to tune in and hear from the start. Tim’s antsy. He’s anxious to hear how John feels about everything - especially considering Tim hasn’t thought about anything except John since the second the door shut behind him.

 

“Okay okay shit I’ll start,” John says, after a few minutes. He chews into his lip, eyes instantly going dark, lids heavy. “A couple months ago somebody asked if I’d ever slept with a teacher for extra credit, and I didn’t suck his dick for extra credit before anybody asks so the answer’s still ‘no’; I just sucked his dick ‘cause he’s _hot_.” Tim feels himself blush all over again. Jesus. “And he’s probably watching me right now. So to him: I truly cannot wait for the day you fuck me on your desk. So anyway.”

 

Tim’s head is spinning. There’s no blood left in his brain to comprehend John’s words. It’s all in his dick.

 

“He told me he’d seen my cam stuff, and wanted to be professional or whatever so it wasn’t weird, but I just asked him if he liked it and jerked off to it and he said yes. So I sucked his dick.” John shrugs, shifting up onto his knees. He parts his legs and the skirt rides up to expose the stayup band of his stockings. “I didn’t have time to let him get me off and I’ve been fucking hard ever since. I’ve been _dying_ to get off.” The thought of John being so pent up makes Tim’s cock jerk. He squeezes it once through his boxer briefs, as if to tell it to be patient. _Shh. Soon._

 

“He’s got the most beautiful dick I’ve ever fucking seen,” John’s saying, answering a question in the chat. He’s got his hand around his own length through the skirt and whatever he’s wearing underneath it. “Pretty and long, curved. Pink. Uncut. He’s European. Scandinavian I think.”

 

“ _Swedish_ ,” Tim finds himself whispering indignantly. How _dare_ anyone imply he could be Norwegian. But it’s a fleeting thought.

 

“I saw him out of class once and he’s _so_ my type,” John says, as he hikes the skirt up. He’s wearing white panties underneath, already marked wet with his precome. “Boots, leather jacket, jeans so tight I could’ve seen what side he tucks his cock to. If only I’d been closer. _Fuck_.” John grips his cock through his panties. “He’s got a nipple piercing too. He’s my fucking wet dream.”

 

Tim’s too captivated to even touch himself. John’s not even watching his laptop to read the chat; he’s ignoring them entirely, eyes staring into the camera at the foot of his bed. It’s as if John’s speaking to him directly.

 

“I’m gonna do it again,” John says. He pushes the panties down his thighs enough to start working his dick, not even bothering to get lube. John shudders visibly, moaning. “He came so fucking much I thought I’d choke. I want more. I want him to fuck me on his desk.” He’s jerking off in earnest now, and the tip notification sound goes off. “Fuck, I just wanna come on his big fucking dick--”

 

Tim finally starts touching himself too, but only because he thinks his dick might actually explode if he doesn’t. He tries to match John’s pace, finds himself biting his knuckles to keep from making any noise.

 

“I know you’re watching,” John says, free hand fisted in the fabric of his skirt, other a blur as he pumps his cock. Tim feels himself stiffen when John addresses him directly. “How many fucking times have you watched me? Jerking your fucking perfect dick -- _fuck_ , I’ll do anything for it, just tell me, _please_.”

 

Holy shit. Yeah. Tim can arrange that.

 

“I’m gonna fucking come,” John moans out, shuddering once before spilling endlessly over his knuckles, dripping onto his stockings. Tim comes for the second time that day, shortly after, as John’s riding it out, spraying hot across his stomach. He actually _whimpers_. John falls over onto the bed, stretching out, languid, long.

 

“Fuck,” Tim whispers to himself.

 

John reaches over to his laptop and shuts his webcam feed off without another word.

 

//

 

“You never said it was _that_ John,” Stephen says, fingers pushing back his hair. Tim is hunched over, trying desperately to focus on Tiffany playing _Overwatch_. Tim doesn’t know much about _Overwatch_ , but he’s got sort of a crush on the purple spider lady on account of she could murder him with her bare hands. That’s a quality Tim admires in a woman.

 

“I didn’t think he’d be in your class because he’s at the school for music and visual art, not philosophy or whatever that falls under categorically,” Tim says. He sighs, face in his hands, the heels of his palms pressing into his eye sockets. “I fucked up.”

 

“Oh my god,” Tiffany says, throwing her controller down. The match is over - her team lost, Tim thinks. “Look, maybe it was unprofessional, but it was consensual and you’re both of age. Who cares.”

 

“The chancellor,” Tim starts. “The entire board of trustees. The dean. The department chair. The one front office lady who hates me. The pro--”

 

“And who says they have to know?” Tiffany asks, twisting around to look at him. “God, you’re fucking _wallowing_. You got blown by a hot blonde twink and you’re _wallowing_?”

 

“Don’t say 'twink',” Tim says, “it’s weird when you say it.”

 

“Semantics,” Tiffany says, jabbing a pointed black fingernail at him. “You don’t have to do anything till graduation. I’m sure John would understand if you told him, anyway.”

 

“I should’ve known your type was _that_ ,” Stephen says, fingers folded in front of his mouth. “God. I’m never gonna be able to teach that period again knowing _he_ blew _you_.”

 

“Yeah, imagine how I feel,” Tim mumbles.

 

“Shut up Stephen,” Tiffany says. “But I mean, if you did want to continue whatever it is, you have a… unique situation to be taken advantage of.” Tim lifts his head, looks at Tiffany, who’s smirking. “I’d just say if I were you, I’d say fuck it. There’s two weeks till graduation. Get at least _one_ good round of desk sex in.”

 

“I’m never touching your desk again,” Stephen says. Tim narrows his eyes.

 

“Tiff, you really are a terrible influence,” Tim says.

 

//

 

Tim is passing back essays the next class. When he drops John’s on his desk, Tim also pulls a note from his pocket, tossing it on top of the essay. John looks at him, but Tim just smiles politely, pushes his glasses up his nose and thumbs through his stack of essays to find the next student’s. John pockets it without reading it.

 

//

 

For a few class periods, John doesn’t stay afterwards to talk to Tim. He barely even looks him in the eye. He’s been camming like normal, most days of the week, but hasn’t spoken to or of Tim there either. Tim’s starting to suspect John has regrets. Considering Tim could get fired, it’s probably a good thing.

 

Then, one Monday in late May, John walks in.

 

He walks in on a pair of new platform boots, wearing a fur coat over a crop top and pleather pants. His hair is no longer blonde, but a pastel blue, and he’s chewing gum. Tim takes his glasses off, grabs the trash bin from under his desk, and holds it out. John stops.

 

“No gum in my class, Lowery,” Tim says. “It’s in the syllabus.”

 

John doesn’t say anything. He just spits his gum into the bin and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a folded piece of paper, which he flicks onto Tim’s desk. He seats himself.

 

When Tim opens the note, it’s the same one he’d given John several classes prior. Except under his all capitals scrawl, John’s handwriting is added beneath it.

 

_WEAR THAT PINK PLUG TO CLASS AND THEN WE’LL TALK._

 

_deal._

 

Tim looks at John in his window seat, blue hair vibrant in the sunlight. He shrugs his coat off. Tim crumples the note and pockets it.

 

“Detention, then, Lowery,” Tim says.

 

The class _oohs_. John smirks.

 

//

 

As the class files out, Tim wipes down the whiteboard. He hears John’s boots behind him, and his bag fall onto the floor against his desk. Tim glances over his shoulder, pushes his glasses up. The classroom is empty except for them.

 

“Lock the door,” Tim says.

 

“I thought it was hot when we might’ve been caught,” John says.

 

“And I think I’d really like to keep my job,” Tim remarks. He raises an eyebrow. John locks the door.

 

“How do you feel about the new hair color?” he asks, as he saunters back over to Tim. John lays his hand into Tim’s chest, winds his fingers in his tie. They’re eye-to-eye with John in his new boots.

 

“It’s cute,” Tim says, bringing a hand up to brush his fingers through it. It’s not as dry as he suspected it’d be, but then again, John hadn’t needed to bleach it before going blue. “I had green hair last summer.”

 

“Sounds hot,” John remarks. “Will you do it again this summer?”

 

“I might,” Tim says. “I’m sort of getting too old for weird hair colors.” John hums.

 

“I don’t think so,” he says.

 

“Care to explain why you’ve been avoiding me for two weeks?” Tim asks. John smirks.

 

“I just wanted to make you want it worse,” he admits. Somehow, Tim isn’t upset with him. John reaches down to the button fly of his pants, rips it open. “I kept my end of the deal.”

 

“Show me,” Tim says. John nods, smiles, tosses his coat over his bag. He steps over to Tim’s desk, pushes his pants and underwear down around his thighs -- he’s nearly hard, Tim notes - and turns around, resting his elbows on the desk. Tim can see the sliver of pink silicone that is the base of the plug, worn exactly as ordered. “Fuck,” Tim whispers.

 

“You having second thoughts or something?” John asks. It’s not accusatory, nor disappointed.

 

“No,” Tim says. “That’s why I’m so. _Fuck_.” He reaches over and grabs a handful of John’s ass, squeezes. “Don’t talk about this on cam. I want something to myself.” John purrs.

 

“Fuck me good enough and I’ll consider it,” he says, pushing back into Tim’s hand. Tim smacks it.

 

“Brat,” Tim says. John bites back a grin, clearly pleased with himself, but Tim’s unbuckling his belt anyway. “It might be a little dry since this is the only lube--”

 

“It’s fine,” John says. “Prefer it that way.” Tim slides his hand up over the exposed small of John’s back, the two perfect little dimples there, then slaps the other cheek. “You can hit me harder,” John says.

 

“I might,” Tim says, pulling his cock out. He gives himself a couple pulls to take the edge off, lays his length against the base of the plug. He’s nearly panting already. “Pull it out for me?” John lays his chest into the desk, reaching back to hold himself open and grip the base with the other hand, black chipped nails on pink skin and silicone. Tim can actually see him stretch as he pulls the plug out, and when it finally gives it up, John’s gaped open like he’s already been fucked. “ _Jesus_ ,” Tim whispers, sucking in on his jaw, spitting. He certainly doesn’t _need_ any working open, but Tim easily sinks three fingers into John’s ass anyway.

 

“Fuck,” John gasps, grabbing onto the edge of the desk. Tim’s fingers move easy, the spit making the lube John had used to put the plug in this morning slick again. “ _Fuck_.”

 

“Easy,” Tim says, other hand pushing the back of John’s crop top up further to expose soft back. “I just had to get my fingers inside you. Couldn’t resist.” Tim rocks his hand, curling his fingers inside him.

 

“That’s so nice,” John sighs, breath shaking. “I thought you wanted me to wear the plug so you didn’t _have_ to finger me first.”

 

“Maybe I just wanted you to have to squirm on it all class before I’d give you my cock,” Tim remarks. John whimpers.

 

“Tim,” he says.

 

“Mr. _Skold_ ,” Tim says firmly, reflexively, but John actually _moans_ in response.

 

“I’m sorry Mr. Skold,” John says quickly, shuddering.

 

There’s no fucking way Tim is ever going to be able to teach ever again, after hearing the way John gasps out his honorary.

 

“Good boy,” Tim says, slipping his fingers out and using the bit of lube on them to slick over his cock. John’s looking over his shoulder, eyes that deep cherry purple Tim knows so well, and Tim presses, just barely, the head of his cock sliding in easily. John whines and pushes back at it. “Easy,” Tim murmurs, even as he’s sinking in the rest of the way. Tim swears under his breath. His hips are flush up against John’s ass, pink from being spanked. He’s not normally one to watch his cock when he fucks somebody but Tim can’t help staring as he gives one long, slow stroke at first.

 

“Please,” John chokes out, and Tim can never deny him.

 

Tim grabs John’s arm and twists it behind him, pinning him to the desk with his other hand flat between his shoulder blades. John makes a soft little noise of approval, and Tim pulls John’s arm for a little leverage as he pulls him back onto his cock, quick and rough, needy. John moans, and it’s so much better to hear in person than through his headphones. Tim just fucks him harder, groaning low in his throat.

 

“Good boy,” Tim says again, moving his hand up to John’s hair, knotting his fingers into cotton candy blue.

 

“Pull it,” John says, voice desperate. “Choke me, I can take it--”

 

Tim lets go of John’s arm, both hands going around John’s neck from behind. Not choking so much as squeezing, pulling John up a bit from the desk. John moans again, fingers desperately gripping at the edge of Tim’s desk. Tim dicks up into him, hard smack of skin on skin echoing in the lecture hall.

 

“Fuck, yeah, _fuck_ ,” John grits out, moving his hips back to meet Tim’s. Tim feels his pants sliding down under his ass, but can’t be bothered to grab them to keep them up. “Ah, ah, ah--”

 

“If you come on my desk I expect you to clean up after yourself,” Tim murmurs, voice low in John’s ear. Tim feels him shudder, even as he’s fucking into him.

 

“Yes, Mr. Skold,” John moans, as Tim slows his pace, long strokes. “Fuck, _please_.”

 

“Patient, love; you’re being so good,” Tim whispers. “I can’t fuck like I’m your age anymore.” John smiles, purrs as Tim hilts himself, stills for a moment.

 

“You’re still gonna make me come on your cock,” John breathes, and Tim tightens his grip on his throat. He hears John’s breath catch.

 

“If you ask nicely I’ll touch you,” Tim remarks.

 

“I don’t need you to,” John admits, voice strained in Tim’s grip. “Could come just from your dick.” And fuck. Tim’s never had a guy turn down a reach around before.

 

“God, you’re so fucking _hot_ ,” Tim purrs, going right back to the same quick, hard pace, and John makes the most delightful little pleasured noise. “That good?” he asks.

 

“Fuck, yes, right like that, like --” John gasps, and he’s quiet for a moment as he goes impossibly tighter around Tim, then moans, spilling untouched across Tim’s desk. Tim fucks him right through it, swearing under his breath, feeling his own orgasm pooling in his hips, and when it hits him he stills his hips, coming deep, deep inside John. Tim growls into John’s neck, giving a few last rough thrusts, John making these sweet little _ah_ noises as he rides it out.

 

“Shit,” Tim whispers, inhaling John’s scent and sweat. “You’re so fucking _good_.” John puts his hand on top of Tim’s on his neck, intertwines their fingers.

 

“It seems I made a mess on your desk,” John says, feigning innocence. Tim scoffs a laugh. “I’m sorry Mr. Skold. Let me clean up for you?”

 

“Yeah, f’course,” Tim says, easing himself out and hiking his pants and underwear back up. “Ah, hold on. I got an idea.” John pauses before leaning over, and Tim grabs the pink plug again.

 

“You are a _dirty_ _pervert_ , Mr. Skold,” John says, even though his smile splits his face.

 

Tim plugs his load inside of John, filling him up again, and John licks his come off the desk. Later that afternoon when John cams, he pulls the plug out and Tim’s come leaks out everywhere. Tim can’t help but feel pleased with himself when he sees all the jealous comments in John’s chat room.

 

//

 

John graduates in June, and Tim leaves the ceremony with John’s phone number written on a slip of paper and his copy of Bukowski's  _Burning in Water, Drowning in Flame_ in his jacket pocket.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on tumblr @skold


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